Cat and Mouse

June 22, 2009 - 9:36pm -- swingbug

One of my clients has the most beautiful cat I’ve ever seen. While I sit in the desk chair running Disk Warrior on a stubborn drive, she stands sentry, peering at me around the side of a stack of papers on the floor, not drawing close enough to touch, but always near enough to make sure I’m not messing with her stuff.

She’s long-haired and looks soft like clouds. Likely just as untouchable. Overcast clouds that hint at rain, and with a tail that a raccoon would be proud to own. Piercing eyes on the edge of green and blue that knock you out of this world. There must be a name for this kind of cat. There must be a velvet pillow and a throne for this kind of cat. This one has some kind of birth right. A wild thing walking among the common pedestrians for amusement.

She rests her head on giant, crossed paws and contemplates my existence while the computer churns behind me.

I like cats, but hardly hold them in any kind of reverence. My own beloved fuzzball got two flying lessons early this morning for purring too loud on my face before the alarm clock went off. And I certainly never go in for the fancy types. Give me an SPCA special or your average alley cat assortment any day.

This one though...

All cats think they are gods among peasant folk, but I’d never stopped to wonder if maybe they were right until I fell under this one’s cool regard.

I expect she has a name but I’m hesitant to ask my client. If it turns out to be something like Miss Kitty Fantastico I’m going to be let down.

Disk Warrior continues its slow file check. A couple of times I drop my hand down and whisper my fingers together in invitation. Her eyes don’t even flicker to my fingers, and she certainly doesn’t move. She’s trained on my eyes.

My mighty Disk Warrior has as yet to produce any spoils of war. I look at my feline watcher. “You want to take a crack at it? This is obviously your chair I’m sitting in.” The same cool regard. There is a bell on her collar. I can’t see it beneath her voluminous mane, but I can hear its soft tinkle as she moves her head, tracking my movements in the office.

On my way out the door, I cautiously approach her, quiet and slow. I sit on the floor and hold out my fingers. She crouches, moving back a nearly imperceptible step. I inch forward with a low, flat palm. She smells the air around the tips of my fingers. I reach forward again, hoping to tussle that soft fur, but she’s gone like the puff of smoke that she is. Never was. I put the Disk Warrior back in its sleeve and carry my army back out to my car, leaving the queen to her kingdom.

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